The Common Mind
by tom-marvolo-riddle-mcmxxvi
Summary: Chilton may be a narcissist, but that doesn't mean that he has any sense of self-preservation- certainty not when it comes to the most interesting patient he's ever had. Chilton/Will


It is in the near-silent hours of the morning, when Frederick can barely crawl out of bed and pulling himself into his trousers is a twenty-minute affair, that he feels the ugly and heavy weight of shame. He can avert his eyes from the evidence in the mirror- the tight, red-tinged scars that drag across his stomach to just below his waistline, but he cannot ignore the sag in his posture and the sharp pain along his spine when he sits down. Either mis-sewn or infected, his stitches prevent him from fully straightening his back. He is forced to stand slightly bowed in every conversation, the few inches that have always stood between himself and Drs. Lecter and Bloom widening to a chasm.

The cane is a crutch- not literally, as his leg is long healed and he hardly ever limps. But it hides the permanent marks Gideon left on him under temporary ones, replacing handicaps with a healing muscle that oh, is sure to straighten itself out any day now, Dr. Chilton. He even makes an effort to draw attention to the cane, having spent an exorbitant amount of money on it. He is all-too aware of how it draws people's eyes and leaps on this, fiddling with it casually at every opportunity, twirling it in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the metallic tip, _daring_ them to look. They always do, and he can relax, convinced that they suspect nothing. At least, they play along. He prefers to think that they do this out of respect rather than pity. In the end, he could almost forget it himself.

Almost, if not for Will Graham.

It would be an understatement to call his case fascinating. In the past week alone Frederick has received at least forty calls and letters from psychiatrists hoping to get a crack at Graham before the seemingly inevitable re-trail and verdict that will land him a spot on death row. He has more visitors than nearly any other patient, and certainly none with such high status- half the FBI has been in to see him by now. There's even been an assortment of fan mail. It's generic stuff, mostly expressions of admiration or love, the occasional proposal of marriage. However, rather than tossing it in with the rest, Frederick saves every love letter in a drawer on his desk, bound together with a rubber band. He toys with the notion of showing them to Graham, and tries to imagine his reaction- would he be amused? Disgusted? Depressed? He can picture them all- Graham's lips twitching as he drops his eyes to the floor, his poorly concealed fury as he maintains eye contact for far too long, him chewing on his tongue as he stares off somewhere into the distance. Most people withdraw into themselves after months in a place like this. Will Graham has only grown more expressive.

Frederick spends many afternoons this way, watching the video feeds with his feet propped up on his desk, fantasizing about the things Graham would say, should he suggest this or that. He imagines the expressions he would make, the gestures, the intonations of voice. While his guesses are getting better, nothing can hold up to the reality. Graham continues to defy expectation, jumping from outright disrespect to all but demanding that Frederick test him. "Shouldn't you be my one and only psychiatrist, Dr. Chilton?" he had said, his hands wound loosely through the bars with an impertinence he could not possibly have truly felt, his eyes wide and shining. Frederick remembered thinking that even Graham's attempts to be aloof faltered under the force of what he felt_, _and then taking several steps backward. His legs, maddeningly, had been urging him the other way.

Some days, he chastises himself. He reminds himself of what happened the last time he became too curious about a patient. He stays silent under Dr. Bloom's barbed references to that night in the observatory. He watches Gideon pace his cell and wave at the cameras, all the while rubbing his hand against the rough healing marks under his shirt. He sits in sessions with Graham and takes carefully note of the way he almost sneers at Frederick's cane, at his faltering steps, at his poorly-concealed fear of Abel Gideon. He drowns himself in his shame. It does not help. He is captivated by Graham. Even the man's insults intrigue him more than they offend. He turns over and over in his mind the look on Graham's face when he said, betrayed, near collapse, "he was inducing the seizures." He bites down the surge of something hard and jealous at the mere memory of Will Graham's vulnerability, raw and beautiful. He recognizes his own greed. In Hannibal's possessiveness and sour acceptance of Will's desire to end their therapy, he cannot help but see himself, and to take pleasure in the fact that he has been allowed in where his colleague has not.

Even now, today, sitting in his chair with his hands folded, Graham firmly looking anywhere but at him, Frederick could barely hold back his anticipation.

"Would you like to talk about it?" he said at length, into the silence. Graham almost rolled his eyes in response, and let out a long, audible breath. "I've heard a great deal from Dr. Bloom regarding your actions, but they were somewhat… colored, by her emotions. How would you describe the events?" Graham still did not reply. "I'm sure you know that attempted murder is a criminal offense. There will be consequences for this. They could begin right now."

Graham snorted. "And what about your consequences, Dr. Chilton?" The sun shone through the barred windows in a way that illuminated precisely half of his face, the hollows under his eyes shadowed, a semi-ethereal glow forming around his hair. Frederick raised an eyebrow and Graham continued, "How is it that a serial killer- one who had spent time in a hospital just like this before, managed to get a position as a nurse in your hospital? Isn't it your profession to recognize and understand psychopaths?"

"Stranger things have happened," Frederick said coolly. "Wasn't it Agent Crawford's profession to recognize and understand you?"

There was an extended pause. Graham lifted his left shoulder in a partial shrug. "Fair enough. Though it was Crawford who caught the both of us in the end."

Frederick felt his lower lip curl. "Hmm? And just how did he catch you if you purport that you are innocent?" Graham had resumed staring into nothing. "How do you trap an innocent man?"

Graham's body had gone perfectly still, but his eyes swept back and forth across the dusty, sun-swept floor. "You can trap any fox, regardless of whether or not it's been the one killing your chickens."

"Especially since it resembles all the rest." His voice was softer than he had intended and Graham's eyes shot up to his face. He studied Frederick for several seconds before turning away, as if it pained him. "…Which would explain why Mr. Brown sought you out."

"Oh, he didn't seek me out. I sought _him_." He laughed, very quietly. "He'd gone to so much effort to protect me during my trial. He hoped he wouldn't mind doing me another favor."

"That favor being to kill Hannibal Lecter. Why the sudden change in plans? It was my impression that you hoped to prove his identity as the Chesapeake Ripper."

Graham's response was sharp. "I couldn't find the proof I needed."

He enjoyed Graham angry, the violence bubbling thickly beneath than man's skin, carefully contained. His next words were a barb, intended to provoke him. "So lack of evidence made you desperate. So you're less concerned with justice, so long as you get your revenge for him putting you here?"

Graham's head lifted imperceptibly, his eyes narrowed and hard. Frederick's next breath came out short. He is afraid of Graham in the same way that he is afraid of them all- their resentment, their anger. They'd all like to do what Gideon did. Yet with Graham, his fear seemed to twist into something less immediate, yet more dangerous. He does not believe that Will Graham would attempt to truly hurt him. He doesn't have it in him. And yet, the adrenaline is genuine, and he talked faster as if urging it on. "His death would not have cleared your name. I can only assume you had less noble motives."

"I didn't do it for myself." His teeth were clenched.

He mentally ran down the list of options, zeroing in. "Was it revenge for Miss Katz?"

Graham did not answer, but his fury vibrated through him. He took several hard breaths, and then suddenly seemed to deflate, slumping back in his seat. "You'd be right to punish me," he said. "I doubt Beverly would have been very proud of me either."

"You believe he killed her."

"I know he did," Graham said harshly. "He was all over her. He was all over the crime scene, everywhere, every bit of her that he took apart. He practically signed it."

"But you have no proof."

"Of course not." He wiped his palms down along his face, like he was drying to clean dirt away. Frederick felt a surge of something- pity, or sympathy. "And I won't find any. I can't fight him in here; I'm completely powerless."

He nodded, seeing now the figure Matthew Brown had posed, even in his unassuming lab coat and slight lisp. "You believed that with Brown's assistance you could prevent further murders by killing Hannibal?" He watched Graham move his eyes from the floor, to the far wall, to the guard standing by the heavy double-doors twenty feet down. He looked guilty. "You don't seem very disappointed at your failure." Graham shook his head at nothing. "Dr. Bloom is relieved that she does not have to face you someone who knowingly committed murder- rather than the injured bird she likes to see." He felt gratified to hear Graham laugh.

"So am I."

"I must admit to being disappointed myself. The experience may have helped you recover more of the memories you lost." Graham's smile faltered and then steadied. Frederick watched an indent form at his check as he gnawed at the inside flesh. He could guess at what he was feeling, and may even be close. Nervousness, perhaps, or anger at Frederick for his suggestion of guilt, or even actual guilt. He wasn't sure. He stared at Graham, taking in the ever-present lost boy look on his face when he didn't know what to say in reply, the short breaths bouncing in his throat, the tightness around his eyes. Suddenly, even his educated uncertainty of Graham became unbearable. He wanted to know his exact thoughts, carefully catalogued and understood. He wanted to trap Graham in a glass jar, to pin him painstakingly to a slide, to open him up and have his every secret and feeling laid out and within Frederick's possession.

He had begun to lean forward in his seat and forced himself to sit back; releasing a breath he didn't know he was holding. Graham was watching him suspiciously, and he struggled to school his expression. This was perhaps the most frustrating part- his total lack of control. Graham sat before him in literal chains but he had close to no power over him. He could not understand him, and there was no real punishment he could give that would touch Graham. That was all a bluff. He had to have _something_ Graham wanted, or else these deals wouldn't be necessary, but Frederick didn't appear to hold a single card that could actually be played.

"Will?" He was not aware that he had spoken until he registers Graham's startled movement, followed by him crossing his arms and looking at Frederick warily. Quickly, he crossed his own arms defensively, mimicking him. "What will you do now? Without a partner, you're just as powerless as you were before." Graham bit his lip and Frederick tilted his head slightly to the side, watching him. "Will you give up your campaign against Hannibal Lecter?"

Graham did not speak for several moments. When at last he did, it was with a self-deprecating smile and a helpless look. "No one will listen to me now. Beverly Katz was the only one willing to hear what I had to say, and even she didn't really believe me. I tried to warn her up Lecter, and she ended up dead." He spread his hands. "I don't have anyone else on my side out there. I have no proof. Even if I could remember everything that was done to me, Jack would never hear it after all this."

Frederick listened silently. "If only there was someone who believed you," he said quietly, without intonation.

This time Graham's smile was genuine. "If only."

Frederick was certain in that instant that they were thinking of the same person. He had of course checked her background when she requested a meeting, and her introduction of herself as "Hannibal Lecter's psychologist" was enough reason to be curious. Unfortunately, the brief conversation recorded on tape told him nothing. She had said something about Lecter, something about trauma, and then she had crossed the thin white line on the floor to mutter something into Will Graham's ear that wasn't picked up by audio. It didn't matter. Graham's expression gave it all away- she had given him a vote of confidence, and then she had disappeared.

She had given him nothing, and yet she possessed something of him.

Frederick laboriously rose from his chair. He had not done this before without blatant invitation on Graham's part, and he could feel the man's eyes on him as he crossed the floor, stopping at the door to Graham's cage. He did not rise as he had for that woman, simply tilting back his head to look at Frederick with trepidation. Several things were driving him- Graham's most likely half-forgotten promise of the chance to expose the Chesapeake Ripper, Gideon saying cheerfully, almost mockingly, "he very much wants to be you" as Hannibal smirked- but he thought of only one as he reached out his free hand and rested it on one of the bars at about Graham's shoulder level, touching distance.

He spoke quietly, not quite a whisper, though there was no one close enough to hear them. "If there was proof behind your claims about Hannibal Lecter, something the FBI overlooked, where would it be found?"

Graham just looked at him, his expression moving from shocked to experimental. Slowly, he reached out and placed his hand directly next to Frederick's without making contact, fingers draped casually outside the cage. It was a challenge, a call back to the silent dance of dominance and terror Frederick played with every patient under his watch. He couldn't fully conceal a flinch, though he remained where he was. "Is this your attempt at relating to me?"

Frederick maintained eye contact, fighting heroically to keep his expression calm. "This is my attempt to determine how much of what you are is the result of Hannibal Lecter's unorthodox treatment."

Graham stared up at him. His mouth hung slightly open. He was floored yet steely, that vulnerability pushed to the forefront, its honesty as always the most enthralling part of it, striking Frederick in a place that made him wonder about the benefits of further hypnosis, about how many times more he could pull forward that expression of need in Will Graham that demanded possession. "I don't understand why you would suddenly be interested in believing me," Graham said. It was a question more than a statement.

"I believe," he struggled for a moment not to echo Dr. Bloom's words, "that your claims are most likely not entirely unfounded. At the very least, Dr. Lecter's treatment of you throughout your illness was less that of an innocent bystander than he would have us believe. I am… curious as to his motivations."

Graham's eyes were dark and colorless. He had observed many times how often they seemed to shift in hue- Frederick's thoughts were cut off when Graham's hand snacked through the bars up to the elbow and grasped the stiff fabric of his shirt at his abdomen, yanking him forward roughly so that his forehead collided with the bars. His breath came out in a rush, and he slumped, nearly nose-to-nose with Graham who had left his seat. He heard a shout from the single guard at the far end of the room, followed by heavy boots stomping across the floor, and quickly raised his hand, palm out. "Hold on," he said as calmly as he could, his voice ringing against iron walls.

"Stand down! Release-"

"I said hold on!" he repeated, giving the guard a sharp look. The man stopped dead in his tracks, looking bewildered. He turned back to find Graham glaring at him in a way that made his breath short out and stutter a few times in his lungs. He did not have the presence of mind to pull back. Graham seemed on the verge of saying something before, abruptly, his face slackened with realization.

Scars stinging agonizingly, his free hand dropping the cane to the floor with a loud clank to press against instead his burning side, Frederick recognized, several moments too late, what Graham had seen. Heat was spreading through him at Graham's knuckles pressing painfully against unprotected flesh and scar tissue. His face was flushed and warm. A glance down would have exposed him immediately, but Graham saw through him as well as he did everyone without physical proof. He was the thing encased in glass, cut open and prodded at, and he felt an altogether different kind of shame.

"The food."

Frederick blinked. "What?"

Graham's face had gone pale and flat, his attempt at lack of expression. "I believe that the Chesapeake Ripper consumes the trophies he cuts out of his victims, Dr. Chilton. If Lecter is the Ripper, he's been eating his victims." His eyes flicked away and back again. His voice was cold. "The meat he serves- have it tested." His fist, wound into the fabric of Frederick's shirt, uncurled and shoved him away from the bars. He stumbled back, almost caught himself, and would have toppled over if not for the guard's hand on his arm.

"Sir? are you all right?"

"Remove him," he breathed out in answer. Graham looked at him solemnly, having resumed his seat. With several feet between them, Frederick could now see the uncertainty behind his eyes. "Back to his cell. Make sure he eats." He tried to pick up his cane but couldn't bend far enough, his already aggravated scars whining in pain. The guard scooped it up by the handle and handed it to him, and he avoided Graham's gaze as he tucked it under his arm and painfully made his way out of the room.

He looked his office door behind him as he answered, a precaution he rarely took with four levels of security between him and the patients and five between him and the outside world. His notes from Graham's previous session laid open on his desk and he roughly shoved them into a pile before dropping them into a drawer with various sheets of unfinished paperwork and broken pencils. Yanking the monitor around to face him, he impatiently found Graham's hallway and watched as he was led by the elbow into his cell, pulled back against the bars so that his handcuffs could be removed. Graham dropped onto the cot and stared ahead, seemingly at the sink directly across the room. He wouldn't move for hours.

Frederick sat back in his chair, chewing on one of his knuckles. His forehead still ached, and might bruise. He wondered, out of habit, what expression Graham would have made if he had actually touched him rather than just making a suggestion of it, had reached through the bars for him or responded at Graham's own gesture. However, he found that his imagination failed him, reality still washing over him in the pain through his torso and a second problem that he presses the heel of his palm against through his trousers, willing it to disappear. The patients didn't shower often, so Graham had smelled primarily like sweat and rust. It hadn't bothered him at the time, but it hung thick around him now. He smelled, underneath it, something sweet and fever-like, and proceeded to empty half a bottle of hand sanitizer into his palms. He rubbed them together until the skin burned, then picked up the telephone and dialed Jack Crawford's number. His cheeks were still warm.


End file.
